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Colonel Pistachio, wore a handlebar mustachio –

he kept under a well-netted head. 

And with his helmet atop, the net would drop,

to keep the bugs and bees at good stead. 

Through his thick-lens glasses

He moved slow as molasses,

in chasing his afternoon prey. 

And the butterflies in season,

Without good reason,

had no fear of the colonel, per se.   

So the weary worn colonel,

emerged unfurled,

from the brush and the bush they say.

And the butterflies it seems

fluttered off as in a dream,

and escaped the colonel that day. 

So as he lay in his bed, he wondered in his head,

of butterflies as they headed south, 

Easier to catch, and tastier in fact,

were the nuts that you pop in your mouth.